


Quarter to One

by obirain



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Fluff, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:54:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28511496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obirain/pseuds/obirain
Summary: In some happy coincidence, you and Obi-Wan were brought to the Temple on the same day; you make sure to celebrate it every year no matter how much you change. But tonight, on your fifteenth annual celebration, something’s different.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Reader, Obi-Wan Kenobi/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Quarter to One

_Tepasi taffy. Candied bofa. Blatberry pie._ Your mouth’s already watering as you arrange them neatly at the bottom of your bookbag. Everything’s cooled to room temperature; if they’re jostled out of the rough cloth around them, hopefully things won’t get too sticky. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway. You’re rushing, cutting corners, packing them in more sloppily, but your patience is wearing thin. Your hands flex and shake like you’d just downed thirteen cups of caf. 

One last look at the clock tells you it’s five to midnight. Your cargo’s not… quite as organized as you might like, but you’ve got to get going. So you shrug on your robe, swing the bag over your shoulder (a little too excitedly given the crack job inside), and head out. 

You love this time of night. Wandering around the dark, empty corridors always sends a thrill through you, a jumbled mess of anxiety and adventure and bewildering calm. If only you had an excuse to break the rules more often—not that you need much persuading. Though, at the rate you’re going, you won’t have a curfew much longer—

“And where are you going, little one?”

You freeze. Your hands clench into fists while your heart rate shoots sky high. _Blasted kriffing hells._

“Just returning some texts, Master.” 

You take a deep breath or two before turning around. Your Master, Shan Raail, stands beneath the high, narrow arch of a connected hallway; his montrals cast long shadows against the wall. You can’t help but frown. Your Master’s stuck to an early bedtime all the years you’ve known him. If anything, he’s breaking his _own_ curfew. But somehow this doesn’t seem like the time to ask.

“Returning texts? At midnight?”

“… They’re overdue.”

His nose twitches. _Blast, he can smell them, can’t he?_ You have to admit—if he writes you up for this, you’ll have deserved it. You’ve been breaking your curfew too willfully for too long to slip up like this. But a moment later, Raail sighs and shakes his head.

“I thought you might have grown out of… overdue library texts. I see I was mistaken. Even so, I know the library’s… very important to you…” He couldn’t sound more exhausted if he’d spent the whole day and then some in the creche. “Try not to dawdle, young one. It’s already past your curfew, and I’m well aware how long your… erm, _library visits_ can last.”

The breath you were holding releases in a long exhale; you have to fight the smile off your face. “Yes, Master.”

“So long as you’re ready for the morning, I suppose…” He avoids further eye contact as he walks the opposite way, still shaking his head. “… sure it’s alright…”

Your heart takes a moment to return to normal; you wipe a bead of sweat from your brow. _Well, this won’t work,_ you think. You’re almost a Knight, a _certified adult_ who’s somehow permitted to wander around the galaxy with a glorified glowstick of death at your belt. And you _still_ wear your thoughts on your face like a kriffing mud mask. 

_Try not to dawdle._

Your Master’s right, you realize through your mortified daze. You’ve been loitering in place for several seconds too long, and you’re painfully aware that the other Masters won’t be as merciful. So you turn onto a narrower passage right off the main hall. It’s even darker and quieter here; the pattering of your feet up the stairs hits your ears too loud. And it’s out of your way, too—a walk that would otherwise take three or four minutes turns into ten—but you can’t afford to be careless anymore. 

It’s all worth it, though, when you break out onto the balcony and into the fresh air. A cool wind blows across your face, whipping your Padawan braid back and forth, while your eyes adjust to the moonlight, the starlight, and the golden traffic lanes above and around you. It may be lights-out for the Temple, but the rest of Coruscant’s still buzzing. 

“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about me.”

 _Of course_ Obi-Wan’s already there. He hasn’t been a minute late in four years, and makes sure to remind you at every opportunity. If you looked to where he leaned against the wall, you’d see the smug smile from beneath his hood. But you only grip the railing and stare into the shimmering ocean beneath you with feigned interest.

“Of course I did. Almost slept through the whole thing.”

“Oh?” Out of the corner of your eye, you see him join you at the edge. “In that case… why not leave the spoils here and go back to bed? I wouldn’t want to cheat you out of any sleep.”

“And _I_ wouldn’t trust you as far as a bantha flies,” you mutter. Finally you look at him, only to see him staring back at you intently. At least, you assume he’s looking at you; you can barely see his eyes with his hood up. And you miss them terribly. 

“What’s with this?” You grin, tugging on the hem and pulling it over his face. “You look like a fugitive. Or is it just a fashion statement?”

He sputters and tries to fight your hand away before breaking into that laugh of his—soft and clear and _real._ “Would that be too terrible? It’s a special occasion, after all.” 

You nod solemnly. “The specialest.”

“That’s not—”

“I said what I said and you should respect it.” You pull him by the sleeve of his robe to your favorite spot against the wall, right in the corner. “I gotta be up and ready by sunrise; let’s get this over with. Make it quick, Kenobi.”

“Of course, _my lady.”_

As soon as you sit you begin pulling out the sweets you’d packed in earlier. There’s a bit of leakage at some of the edges, but the bag’s inner lining is perfectly dry to the touch. You can’t help but sigh in relief. Beside you, Obi-Wan does the same. 

It’s a good haul tonight. There have been years when the refectories just weren’t offering much in the way of good desserts that night, or (more frequently) when a culinary droid caught you sneaking your third cookie like it was your first, with four others still lining your pockets. You found ways around that, though, eventually spending the whole day taking one dessert from _every_ refectory. But it was all worth it in the end, when you laid everything out into a feast of pure sugar fit for a king. 

It’s too self-indulgent for a Jedi; you both know that. But you’re no Jedi yet. Besides, your Temple day only comes once a year. 

You toss him a dessert from your stash and he tosses you one from his. You hold it high. “To twenty-two!”

“Twenty-two,” he echoes. You unwrap your sweets—yours a tiny container of denta bean ice cream and his a cup of chocolate pudding, each with a tiny wooden spoon attached to the lids—and taste them at the same time.

Three seconds of silence. Three seconds for slow smiles to spread over your faces, three seconds before you both giggle like younglings again. 

“Kriff, that’s good,” you say as soon as you swallow. “I haven’t had denta since… since that dinner party on Alderaan.”

He scoffs, only egging on your delighted laughter. “I snuck out without permission to find _you_ some Maker-forsaken ice cream and this is how you repay me? Remind me of my greatest high societal failure?”

 _That_ wipes the smile off your face. “You had to leave the Temple for this?”

“No, I _chose_ to. It’s our fifteenth annual, after all. We both deserve a treat. Which reminds me…” 

He reaches into his satchel again and reveals a tall but narrow bottle filled with liquid amber. Your jaw drops.

“Ruge liqueur?” You gape at him, wide eyed. “I don’t—I can’t—Obi-Wan, I don’t even want to know how you got your hands on this.”

“I have connections,” he chuckles, pouring you each a cup. You can’t help but laugh—they’re the short, smooth teacups from the refectories. The liqueur says _grown up;_ its transport says _not quite._

“Oh, shut up. We make do.” He raises his teacup as you raise yours. “To fifteen.”

“Fifteen,” you echo. It’s burning hot and _sweet_ down your throat and warms you from the inside out. The breeze leaves goosebumps rippling along your skin while the fire still burns within.

You lapse into velvet soft silence. This rare moment of indulgence—the sugar, the sweetness, the slow sips from the liqueur as you watch the never-ending stream of speeders above and around—lulls you into quiet contentment. You feel almost weightless, like the only thing keeping you on this balcony is Obi-Wan’s grounding warmth beside you.

But then you jolt up. What time is it? How long have you been here? You’ve lost track; it could be fifteen minutes or an hour for all you know. But the air does strike you as significantly colder than when you first arrived. You shiver at the thought alone and reach for the bottle of ruge.

“Don’t you have sparring in the morning?” Obi-Wan eyes your refilled teacup with one eyebrow raised. You only huff and take another sip.

“I’m _freezing;_ I’d drink straight from the bottle if I thought it’d help.”

“As entertaining as that would be, you don’t want to make it _too_ easy for Quinlan, do you?”

“Quinlan Vos can kiss my ass,” you mutter. His laughter hits your ears like music and heats your skin more than the liqueur does. 

“Maybe later,” he says softly. He inches closer until you’re pressed together; you lean into him and sigh at the new warmth. “This better?”

“Mhmm… And don’t you leave for Naboo in the morning?”

Obi-Wan shoots you a mischievous smile as he pours himself another cup. “I’d rather be hungover on a quiet starship than in the training rooms at dawn.”

“You’re awfully laissez-faire about _Trade Federation negotiations,”_ you tease him. “This is supposed to be one of your last missions before your Trials, right?”

He grins. “Well, don’t get my hopes up; Master Qui-Gon’s said next to nothing about them. You’ll be graduated with your own Padawan by the time he lets me take them, just wait.”

“I’d never take a Padawan without you,” you say earnestly. 

The air shifts; you feel it before the words have fully left your mouth. You scramble through the alcoholic haze over your head for an explanation, only to find you’re _now_ at a loss for words. Convenient.

“I mean—we—we should take them at the same time, teach them the way. Give them a chance to break the rules like we do, together… Only—only if you want to.” Your face burns like a furnace.

Obi-Wan’s quiet for what feels like forever. _Blast, that was too much, wasn’t it? Maybe he doesn’t even want a Padawan. No, that can’t be it. It’s a Jedi’s responsibility; he talks about it_ all _the time. Maybe he just doesn’t want them breaking the rules. Maybe he just doesn’t want a Padawan with_ you—

“You’re panicking,” he remarks.

“I’m not panicking.” You both pause as the silence all but engulfs you. You’re tapping and fidgeting again, not from excitement. He raises his eyebrows at you, and you deflate. Why are you still trying to lie to him?

“Do you think—in the future—when we’re Knights, when we take Padawans…” You trail off; somehow you can’t bear to even _look_ for the end of your sentence.

“No one’s taking a Padawan any time soon,” he reminds you. 

“I—I _know,”_ you grit your teeth. “But—when we do… Everything’s going to change, isn’t it?”

He frowns, and sighs. “I suppose it will, yes.”

You lower your eyes. What else had you expected? You force a wry smile, and force yourself to look at him; you don’t quite make it there. “That’s probably for the best, huh? Can’t have two Jedi Masters running around, still hiding from culinary droids. Can you imagine the scandal?”

“But we…” He exhales shakily. “We don’t have to stop this. Maybe—maybe not everything has to change.”

You finally _fully_ look into his eyes. The brightest, clearest blue, shining like glass in the coppery half light, fixated on you. Studying you. Watching for the slightest crease in your brow, the flicker in your eye, the curve of your lips. Not that you make it too difficult for him. Your expressions ebb and flow with the tide of your emotions, no thought, no restraint, only instinct. Or maybe no instinct at all, just unquestioning servitude to each and every wayward beat of your heart.

You know it. Obi-Wan knows it. Yet he still looks at you like you’re a riddle. 

“I hope you’re right,” you whisper.

“Me too.” He keeps his gaze on you even as he reaches for your hand. You can feel every ridge and callous, every subconscious flex of his fingers. The weight and warmth of his hand over yours is more grounding than gravity. “I don’t want to lose this.”

You interlock your fingers with his and squeeze. _I don’t want to lose you._

You’re not sure what comes over you then. Emotion, instinct, obedience—it doesn’t matter, now that you think about it. Because he’s so close, so warm, right at your side and yet all around; it was bound to happen. You were bound to tug on his cloak, bound to pull him closer, to capture his lips with yours.

He groans immediately, and you flinch away. You miscalculated, you overstepped, you—

But then his lips are on yours again, tasting, exploring. He brings a hand up to cup your cheek just as you reach yours around his neck, running your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. It’s impossibly soft against your skin. You feel around for his braid and tug, and again he moans into your mouth. Goosebumps erupt over your skin and a thrill rockets through you at the sound; between that and the lingering taste of sugar and ruge on his tongue, you feel like you’re floating, with nothing holding you down but his ever-tightening grip on your hand. 

You miss it as soon as you pull away, gasping for air. It devolves into breathless laughter; Obi-Wan furrows his brow.

“Obi—you’ve got— _somehow—”_

He looks down at his shoulder. “Blast—”

Dark flecks mar the end of his braid; it must have fallen into the pudding. “I—this isn’t—”

You laugh, pull him back to you, and press another kiss against his lips. Short, sweet, to the point. “You don’t know how much I adore you, Kenobi.”

“Care to show me?”

“How much time you got?” You run your fingers through his hair and laugh. 

He raises your still-interlocked hands to his mouth and kisses along your knuckles. The touch of his lips is feather-light, even as he squeezes your hand mercilessly.

“Plenty—when I get back. But I should let you go. You need some sleep if you’re going to show Quinlan up tomorrow.”

You groan and rest your head against his shoulder. “What time is it?”

“Erm…” He lets go of your hand just long enough to check his chronometer. “A quarter to one.”

“Fifteen more minutes.”

He doesn’t bother arguing with you, not when you’re already twiddling his braid in your fingers again, tugging on it gently. He sighs; his whole body relaxes under you.

“Fifteen minutes, then,” he murmurs against the corner of your mouth. You pull him just a little closer, desperate to feel him again, desperate to taste him, to grip him like a lifeline until he really is the only thing keeping you on the ground. So warm, so whole, so soft, _so sweet._ It’s the only word your broken mind can come up with as you curl into him and taste the stars; they’re exquisite.

And when fifteen minutes pass, you take fifteen more.


End file.
